The Butterfly's Dream
by MollyCarpenter
Summary: "It was another one of the Castiel dreams. They're starting to freak me out." Part IV of Not In Kansas


It's one of the Castiel dreams again.

It starts innocuously enough, crouching next to a Jeep with the airsoft rifle in his lap while his fingers check his pistol, but both weapons are heavier than they should be. His shirt isn't scratchy-new against his skin, and his foot aches over the old break, and his chest aches like it always does, ever since the last of his Grace guttered out like a candle.

Cas-he doesn't even think of himself as Castiel anymore-watches as the two Deans move out of sight, and isn't surprised when only one comes back; he pretends to buy Dean's story about leaving his younger self to watch the vehicles, but he knows it's bullshit, and he can tell Dean knows he knows.

They go in. Cas notices when Dean slips away from the group, but no one else does, and then the croats hit them and there's no time for anything but fighting. They run out of bullets pretty fast; Cas lasts the longest because of all of them he's the only one who has much experience with blades. But there are croats all around him, and one of them peels his knife away, and he writhes and twists and bites (he can't catch it, and it's not like it matters now anyway). They're tearing at him with teeth and hands and he knows he's dead but it isn't in him to give up, and then he feels something snap-something tiny, something he didn't even realize was there until it broke-and he closes his eyes-

Misha wrenches himself awake. He lies frozen for a moment, gasping fear and grief into his pillow, and then launches himself at the nightstand, scrabbling for his phone. He's distantly aware that it's after midnight, and that he shouldn't be doing this, but he can't help it, needs to hear the voice, stabs the speed dial with a trembling finger. It rings three times, four, five, and Misha's beginning to despair when Jensen picks up and snarls, "This had better be good, Collins."

He has just enough presence of mind left that the right name comes out. "Jensen, thank God, I'm so sorry, I just...God, I'm sorry, you can go back to—"

"Misha," Jensen's voice overrides him, and it's firm enough to cut through the babble of panic but gentle, worried. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Misha says reflexively, and then, "No. No, I had...God, I dreamed, we went into the sanitarium, they're all dead, the croats, Jesus, Jen, Jesus, _Dean's dead_, I think Lucifer killed him." He runs out of breath and in the pause he can hear a rustling noise in the background of Jensen's end of the call.

"Will you be OK till I get there," Jensen asks calmly, "or do you need me to stay on the phone with you?"

* * *

Misha's hands are still shaking, but he gets the door open after a few false starts. Jensen, his hands shoved in the kangaroo pocket of his sweatshirt, looks him up and down and says, "Fuck, Mish, you look like hell." It's a statement of fact, and Misha is still too off-balance to bother taking offense.

"You didn't have to do this," he says instead. "I know this episode is hard on you, Jen, you need your sleep." He steps back anyway, and Jensen takes the implied invitation.

"Bags under my eyes work for this one," Jensen says, offhand. They trudge up the stairs side by side; at the top Misha waves Jensen into the living room. "Damn. Where'd you get that thing?" Jensen asks, eyeing Misha's biggest chair in a way that suggests he thinks it's about to attack.

"Estate sale," Misha says, and goes to sit on it. "I had to fix a couple joints and have it reupholstered, but I liked it." Sitting down, it turns out, is a bad idea, because as soon as he stops moving he starts _thinking_ again and the tremor in his hands gets worse. He draws up his feet and wraps his arms around his knees, but it's too late; Jensen's seen it.

"OK," Jensen says. "I think you need to tell me what happened." He's using the careful voice again, like he's afraid Misha's going to shatter, or explode. Misha leans his head back and closes his eyes—and then opens them, because when they're closed he can see the croats. So he stares at the ceiling instead.

"The last few months, I've been having dreams," he says. "I've been dreaming about things that happen to Castiel." Jensen, on the edge of Misha's vision, nods. "And I know I've been talking about it like it was just...character bleed, but I don't even know, Jen. They feel...really real."

"And you had a dream tonight," Jensen says. There's not a hint of mocking or skepticism in his tone, and Misha's grateful for that even if it's acting; Jensen is a practical, sensible kind of guy, and weird dreams about your character probably aren't high on his list of real problems.

"The last couple nights, but this one was, I don't know, current," he says, his fingers twisting in the fabric of the sweatshirt he'd put on to receive guests. "The last part in the future, the stuff we shot the other day. We were outside the sanitarium and future Dean took past Dean off to the side to talk, and came back alone. And then we all went in and Dean stayed back, and then the croats hit us. It...it didn't go well." His voice shakes just like his hands and he has to stop for a second. "I think I...Castiel...I think Castiel was the last one left. They took his knife, and there were too many of them. They were trying to tear him apart, he was fighting them, except then..." He does close his eyes for this. "I felt Dean die, Jen. I know it doesn't make any sense, but I _felt it_. And I stopped fighting. And that's when I woke up."

Jensen doesn't say anything for a few seconds. His voice is filled with matter-of-fact sympathy when he finally says, "That sounds like it really sucked." Misha manages to laugh at that; it's just a breath, but it's sincere. He nods. "OK," Jensen continues. "You're not on the schedule tomorrow." Misha nods again. "Great. What y'all got to drink around here?"

Jensen is clearly more tired than he's letting on, hints of Texas creeping into his voice, but Misha's willing to ignore that if Jensen is. He produces a small, shaky smile from somewhere and stands up.

* * *

Misha's not a lightweight. On the other hand, he's drinking whiskey on an empty stomach, so _lightweight_ is kind of a relative term. He ends up on the couch, listing into Jensen's shoulder and enjoying it; he's always been a cheerful drunk, and apparently that holds even when he wakes up from nightmares of being ripped apart by fast zombies. Jensen lets him ramble; Misha has no idea what time it is, other than "later", when Jensen plucks the empty shot glass from his hand and says, "OK, time for bed."

Misha goggles at him. From this distance it's weirdly familiar, even without makeup or sets. It's not like he'd say _no—_Jensen is ridiculously pretty, and Misha decided in his teens that there was no sense denying himself on a basis as arbitrary as gender—but he'd had the impression Jensen was thoroughly straight. Not to mention still getting over all the stuff that happened.

The train of thought is neatly derailed when Jensen continues, "Come on, the sooner you're in bed the sooner I can crash, because unlike some folks I have a call in the morning."

"Oh," Misha says, and hopes he doesn't sound too disappointed. "Yeah, OK. Look, you c'n have the bed, I'll sleep out here, I dragged you outta bed." He's pleased with himself for managing to get most of that out without slurring.

"Yeah, and you totally owe me," Jensen says, amused, as they start staggering in the direction of the bedroom. Well, Misha's mostly the one staggering, and Jensen's keeping him from falling on his face. "'M really sorry," Misha says. "You didn't have to."

Jensen sighs, though there's no real annoyance in it, and says, "What are friends for?" Misha suspects it's a rhetorical question, but he feels compelled to come up with an answer anyway.

"It was just a dream, though," he says, waving one hand to demonstrate how little dreams matter. In his head it's a perfectly logical segue.

"Yeah, well, you were…you didn't sound good," Jensen replies as he pushes Misha's bedroom door open. "I get enough pouting on set from Padalecki, can't deal with you being out of it too." He maneuvers Misha deftly around and drops him on the bed.

Misha thinks of a bunch of things he could say, starting with _You need to tell me what Jared did to piss you off so much_, but his last remaining modicum of sense keeps him from saying any of them. Instead he goes through the laborious process of getting himself arranged, pulling the covers up to waist level and lying back. "Thanks," he says, because Jensen may not completely share Dean's attitude towards the expressing of feelings but he's still not the type to care for effusive protestations. Misha decides _effusive_ is a funny word.

"I already said you owe me," Jensen says, smiling. "Now I'm gonna go sack out, but I'm right out there, OK?"

"Yeah," Misha says, his tongue slow and heavy. "Go back to sleep."

"You too," Jensen says. "I'm settin' my alarm, gotta be in makeup at eight."

Misha nods, his eyes already sliding shut. He says "Thanks" again, because it seems like once wasn't enough, but he's not sure how well he articulates the word. The sense must get across, though, because Jensen says, "You're welcome, Mish." He flicks the light out as he goes and Misha's asleep almost before the room goes dark.

This time there are no dreams.


End file.
